Crime and Punishment
by Rusty Halos
Summary: After a huge fight with Asami, Akihito goes out, gets drunk, and makes a massive, colossal mistake. And as we all know, Asami doesn't take betrayal kindly. In the aftermath, just how far is Akihito willing to go to, and just how far will Asami push him? Rated T for now, M soon.


Akihito stared down at the dingy bar, pitted with decades of careless use and stained with all sorts of unsavory fluids. The cramped little corner that housed this particular joint was packed full tonight, and the hum of cheerful twenty-somethings and the buzz of the broken television behind the counter provided enough white noise that Akihito could almost pretend his own thoughts were being drowned out.

But they weren't, and neither was Asami's voice, sinister and velvet deep, seducing and damning, all at once. That voice echoed in every nook and cranny of Akihito's mind, and no matter what he did, no matter what he drank or how far he ran, it wouldn't leave. It was like his own personal ghost, come to haunt his every waking thought.

The bartender placed something clear in front of his clasped hands, nails digging into pale fine flesh and leaving behind red crescents of blood. Akihito picked up the glass slowly. The sides were water stained and the liquid smelled like formaldehyde.

Akihito drank.

It burned all the way down his throat, setting his sinuses on fire, but Akihito swallowed it all. For a moment, for one split second of agonizing clarity, Akihito heard Asami's amused laugh, patronizing and superior and so fucking affectionate it couldn't be a lie, it could never have been a lie.

And then the alcohol kicked in, and God, Akihito was drunk already, too drunk and it was too late and he was too far away from home, too far away from Asami, and Tokyo smelled like sulfur and rain tonight. The air was sharp and acrid, like the burn in Akihito's throat, and it reminded him that thinking that way—thinking about _Asami_ the same way he thought of _home_—would do him no good.

But it was too late, and the damage was done. Asami's face flickered behind his closed eyelids, the beautifully heavy shape of his mouth turned down into a sneer, and Akihito could remember the words like they were carved into his very flesh.

_You belong to me, _Asami had said. _You belong to me, and you will obey, Akihito. You have no other choice._

Just a few words, a small amount of sounds, all jumbled together and weighed down with the arrogance of a god—the words themselves were ones that Asami had spoken any number of times before. And any number of times before, Akihito had snarled and spit and protested, put on a damn good show of independence, pretending like he owned his own life. The end of the story was always the same, Akihito slick and sweaty and moaning for Asami, because words couldn't capture the way his flesh burned for Asami's touch, his eyes, his fingers around Akihito's throat.

It was sick, _Akihito_ was sick. And Akihito was sick of pretending. He wanted the real thing—and maybe it was the alcohol or maybe it was the smell of Tokyo that night, but for once, his thirst for freedom overwhelmed even the deep dark _something_ he felt for Asami. He longed for fire in his blood and defiance in his veins, and that longing left a physical ache in the pit of his stomach, a hunger he had to sate.

So when the beautiful boy with inky dark hair and thoughtful eyes sat down beside him, just a little too close, Akihito didn't protest or stammer or pretend he didn't know what was happening. He only turned a little in his chair, and smiled like the sun, broken and bright and beautiful.

* * *

_This must be what hell feels like_, Akihito thought, as he bent over the toilet bowl in the strange apartment, vomiting up what felt like every single thing he'd eaten in the last year or so. His skin crawled like it couldn't contain the pain in his head and the heavy sickness in his heart, and the pounding beat of his blood thundered to the same sound over and over—_Asami, Asami, Asami_.

When he'd woken up this morning, his body sore in familiar places and reeking of sex, he'd expected Asami's jacket laid neatly over the back of an expensive desk chair, a pack of cigarettes on the nightstand, the shower running in the penthouse's ridiculously luxurious bathroom. But there had only been a note in a hand he didn't recognize tacked to a cheap lamp, thanking him for a great night, and inviting him to stay as long as he needed to.

He'd barely made it to the toilet in time to hurl.

_Should I tell him?_ Akhito turned the thought over and over in his mind, until he felt almost numbed to the roil of emotions deep in his gut.

_It isn't as if…it isn't as if we've ever said that we're beholden to each other_, he told himself, shifting so that he could press his hot cheek against the coolness of the tile wall. _Asami probably has other…lovers on the side._

The thought made him even queasier. Akihito picked himself up off the floor with a groan, and took the coldest shower he'd ever taken in his life. He ran strong cheap soap down his neck and legs, trying to obliterate the lurking sense of nauseating guilt building up in his stomach. He washed his hair twice, trying to rid it of the scent of sex and sweat and thin sheets that smelled like a stranger.

He could only hope that he'd done a credible job, but he knew instinctively that none of this would fool Asami's sharp eyes, his preternatural ability to see right down to the marrow running through Akihito's bones. It was a lost cause. Akihito sighed once, turned off the punishingly cold water, and toweled off roughly. He hated to put on his soiled clothes, but he had to get back to the penthouse before Asami sent goons to look for him.

The long trek back made his limbs jittery with nervous energy, as if the rapid activity going on in his brain had somehow spilled over so that Akihito couldn't help but tap his foot in a fast staccato against the subway's metal floor, earning glares from his fellow passengers. By the time he was faced with the penthouse's heavy door, he could barely keep himself from running.

It was just his luck that Asami happened to be lounging in an armchair, surrounded by newspapers and mugs of coffee, when Akihito finally swung the door open. Asami glanced up at the sound, one elegant eyebrow raised, eyes sharp and calculating. His hands stilled on today's _Asahi Shimbun_.

"Hello," Akihito said, toeing off his shoes, trying to keep his expression blandly emotionless.

"Hello," Asami replied, slowly lowering his paper. "Over your tantrum?"

Akihito's temper flared so fast he couldn't stop the words spilling from his lips. "It wasn't a tantrum, you bastard! You talked about me like I was your fucking pet puppy. I'm _not_, Asami, I'm not anything like that! And you never see it, you won't see it, you won't see _me_, so I had to…I _needed_ something—,"

"Needed, Akihito?" Asami asked, his voice very quiet, and edged like a sharpened rapier. "Please, enlighten me as to what you _needed_."

"I—," Akihito started, but the syllables trapped themselves in his throat, clawing at the flesh. "I…"

"Akihito," Asami said, and there was something in his eyes, even as his entire body remained relaxed. "Speak."

The word came down on Akihito's shoulders like an order from a vengeful god, and he shuddered under its weight. But he couldn't disobey, not with Asami watching him with those terrible eyes and with black anger bubbling under his skin, telling him that Asami ought to suffer, that Asami deserved to know what it felt like to be broken and lost.

"I needed to feel like I was human," Akihito spat, his arms across his chest so tight it almost hurt to breathe, holding his ribs and thundering heart together. "I needed someone who made me feel like I was _human_, Asami, don't you understand? So I went home with a perfectly nice guy and—,"

"Stop," Asami said, and his fingers were tight against the newspaper, the thin sheets crackling as his hands tensed.

Akihito stopped, and he looked at Asami's face, the strong jaw and the perfect nose and those burning, incandescent eyes, that mouth that looked hard and furious and agonized. And Akihito knew, for this single, solitary moment in time, that Asami was in pain, knew it with a bone deep certainty that nearly wrenched a cry from his mouth, made his legs start towards Asami even as every cell in his body rebelled against the thought of Asami's agony.

Akihito knew, if only for that one moment, that he had sinned.

And then the moment was over, and reality came rushing back around his ears like a shockwave of light, bringing with it the motion of Asami's lips, forming words that damned.

"I understand, Akihito," Asami said, his tone even and unperturbed. His eyes had shifted back to the newspaper, away from Akihito. "When you can't fulfill my needs, I have to look elsewhere as well. I suppose it's only fair that you did the same. As long as you remember who you really belong to."

Those words insinuated themselves in the space between Akihito's heart and his chest, burrowing deep into blood and muscle. Something that felt horrifyingly like a sob was building in his throat, and so Akihito bit down hard on his lips, hard enough to draw blood, to bring about a split second of painful clarity that cut through everything else.

And with clarity came purpose.

"Asami, I'm sorry," Akihito said, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I'm so sorry, I didn't—,"

"So why did you decide to tell me this, Akihito?" Asami broke in, setting the paper down and turning his gaze to Akihito. "Did you tell me to be absolved? Are you trying to ask my permission? Did you think you could use this to hurt my feelings? I had no idea you were such a vengeful little thing, Akihito."

Akihito couldn't shake his head, couldn't lie, and Asami seized upon his silence with a nearly vicious glee.

"I thought so. Unfortunately, I have to report that I remain unimpressed with your efforts. If you're trying to inspire jealousy, you might want to try it with someone of a higher…caliber. As for my permission—granted. Now you can fuck with a clean conscience, Akihito. I certainly do."

"Stop it, Asami!" Akihito cried, almost tripping over his own feet as he ran to Asami's chair, his hands coming down on the arms of the chair Asami was sitting in, their faces so close he could feel the tension in Asami's jaw.

"Stop what, Akihito?" Asami said softly, lethally. He looked straight into Akihito's eyes, daring him to speak, daring him to fight.

"You know what," Akihito said, angrily swallowing down the ache in his throat that only came with tears. "Stop acting like it doesn't matter."

"So how _would_ you like me to act?" Asami said, his voice even quieter than before, silky and smooth like the edge of a blade.

"Any other way," Akihito said, the syllables falling from his lips like weights, heavy and quick. "Punish me, Asami, but don't—don't…" His voice trailed off as one of Asam'si hands came up around his throat.

For a long moment, they simply looked at each other, Asami's skin cool and dry against Akihito's pulse, fingers lying languorously across his neck.

"What will you give me in exchange?" Asami said, fingertips stroking across Akihito's veins.

"In exchange for punishment?" Akihito asked, feeling his heart beat against Asami's touch, so fast it didn't seem possible.

"Yes," Asami breathed. "Tell me Akihito, what are you willing to sacrifice?"

* * *

_To be continued…_

* * *

Author's Note: Yes, yes, I know, sorry for the abrupt ending. This was meant to be a quick introductory chapter to my latest Viewfinder project in order to gauge whether or not people might be interested in the premise. Let me know what you think, and have a great holiday season! :)


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